The Dawn Before the Rest of the World
by Wedgewood
Summary: Stranded on a planet embroiled in civil war, Archer and Tucker must care for a seriously ill Reed. In his fever, Reed recalls his early years at sea that estranged him from his father and led to his joining Starfleet and Section 31.


The Dawn Before the Rest of the World.

Stranded on a planet embroiled in civil war, Archer and Tucker must care for a seriously ill Reed. In his fever, Reed recalls his early years at sea that estranged him from his father and led to his joining Starfleet and Section 31.

…

As he was escorted by an armed group of alien soldiers, Captain Archer ruminated ruefully that one day he would learn to suppress his curiosity before it got him killed.

Enterprise was but a bright star in the heavens of this planet's night-sky. And he was stranded now, far from his ship, with no technology, in the middle of a forty-year-long brutal war.

The planet had emitted strange electromagnetic readings that precluded detailed scans and thus prompted a manned survey mission. Data had estimated it was safe for a shuttle as long as it stayed above the mesosphere. However, the mysterious EM readings had flared higher and stronger than expected and the shuttle had crashed. Every electronic system onboard had died, but the three-man crew had fared better.

Along for the unfortunate ride was his chief engineer, Trip Tucker, and armory officer, Malcolm Reed. He couldn't help but think that bringing those two along had been the mistake – their track record was unlucky to say the least. But Archer thought he deserved some credit - he hadn't asked them specifically to come; Malcolm had insisted on the security escort, and Trip had been interested in the EM field.

The shuttle crash had drawn the attention of a nearby faction of indigenous people, the Bavellians, who possessed basic technology: EM-shielded translators, projectile weapons, communicators. As the away team had been lead through rubble and the remains of buildings, all around them was evidence this planet had once thrived with modern space travel. The people looked in ruins too, thin and battered with dull eyes that lacked curiosity or empathy.

Under a polite but unrelenting armed guard the humans had been escorted to the nearby military base and placed before a Bavellian general.

"Your honor." The general bowed deeply. Although alien, the Bavellians looked as human as any species Archer had run across in his travels. "I am sorry to hear of your troubles and your crash, you picked an unfortunate place to land. We are at civil war and have been since I was a child. Our enemy is brutal. The EM interference that crashed your shuttle is one of their weapons to disable us – your technology will not work here unless carefully shielded."

The older alien watched them with a sharp eye and seemed interested in what their response would be.

Archer had been around the block enough times to tread with caution during first contacts. He felt the wary eyes of his crewmates on him and the responsibility of their safety keenly. Blandly he answered, "I'm sorry to hear about your world's troubles. My own planet has experienced similar issues in our past."

"'Tis the nature of life, to fight," the old man said sorrowfully, "And to kill. For 40 years we've fought and the weapons we've devised become more complex and deadly as our desperation grows. Our enemies infected this continent with biologic weapons; this has wiped out half our population." He studied them each closely then added heavily, "This weapon has infected visiting aliens in the past - you are in danger here."

Archer studied his officers during the general's proclamations. They both appeared unhurt and calm, considering the circumstances. Reed was evaluating the general and soldiers in the room subtly. His face was characteristically stoic, but the Captain knew him well enough to catch an undercurrent of grim, longsuffering acceptance. The armory officer was accustomed to rough situations and even thrived in them – one of his best qualities. His body was outwardly relaxed but had an undercurrent of tension.

And his good friend these many years, Trip, was looking right back at him. His expression was a combination of worried and disgusted at the information their captor was relaying. Beyond the obvious humanitarian and ethical issues, Trip had his own personal reasons to hate weapons of mass destruction.

The general continued, "We cannot offer you much, but we are an honorable race and our feud is not with you. If you take a pledge not to bear arms against my people or aid our enemy, I shall parole you. You are welcome to stay in the lodgings we offer to enemy officers if there is room. We can supply you with basic provisions, but sadly, we have nothing else to offer. We are a people in a long, slow decline."

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Archer responded, "I appreciate your offer of supplies, and accept, but we would prefer to return to our shuttle and attempt repairs." He pushed a little further and asked, "Will you help us contact our ship? We would rather not be involved in your conflict."

"We have no way to contact an object in space, we are a crippled people. My luck to you in repairing your craft, I have little to offer but that."

The humans were dismissed, instructed where to go for provisions, and the tension eased in Captain Archer's body. But not, he noticed, in his security officer's. Reed was still coiled as a spring and seemed to feel keenly the loss of a functioning sidearm. His eyes flicked up to acknowledge his captain's attention but returned to the surrounding aliens.

"Not the friendliest people but not the worst we've met." Quipped Trip once they were alone.

Archer fondly considered that one of Trip's greatest values as an officer was he was level-headed and positive in almost any situation.

"They are too concerned with their own affairs to give us any thought," Reed soft voice countered darkly. "They are a dangerous people. If they would do these atrocities to their own kind, think what they may do to others."

Just as Trip's comment had highlighted his personality, so too this comment did for Reed. The man was slow to trust and thought in worst-case-scenarios. This quality had saved the Enterprise many times and Archer was glad to have these two men with him.

The trio returned to the shuttle that evening. They attempted a few repairs and slept after a simple meal provided by the Bavellians.

Unsurprisingly, Reed insisted they have someone keep watch and nominated himself. They had no functioning weapons but he insisted it was folly to rest in a warzone without alertness. Archer knew well the meticulous nature of his security officer and took this suggestion seriously. Years ago, as a naïve captain, he may have been less mistrustful of an alien race, but time and experience had hardened Archer's soul.

Hours later, Archer jerked awake, momentarily disoriented. He looked around the dark shuttle and saw Trip breathing deeply and calmly next to him. He looked over at Reed, expecting to see sharp, pale eyes meet his. However, Malcolm was curved uncomfortably up against the hull, eyes firmly shut. He was also breathing deeply but it had an edge of panic or maybe pain to it.

Archer was immediately concerned. It had been a long and tiring day, and even the most fastidious officer could make a mistake, but Malcolm's personality would hardly allow an oversight such as this. And his sleep was not healthy; the man was twisted up in his blankets, sweating despite the cool temperatures and mumbling. He did not stir, even when he was firmly hailed.

"Lieutenant Reed, wake up." He tried several times, quietly and then more loudly. Archer tried to avoid touching the man as Reed was wont to strike out when surprised.

Trip stirred and came over, tousled. He showed no compunctions when he reached over and shook Reed several times. "Capt'n, he's hot to the touch."

"Is he hurt somewhere, from the crash?" Archer silently cursed himself for not paying more attention, Reed was the type to downplay injuries.

"No, I think he's sick." Trip said, looking carefully at the pasty face and felt for the pulse.

The captain ran his hands firmly down each appendage and torso. No swelling, nor blood.

"He just won't wake up." Tucker said worriedly.

Archer thought deep, felt a swell of concern crest and fought hard to suppress it. This was the problem with serving with officers he considered family. He remembered the words of the alien general, of the biologic weapons and the startling mortality rate.

He comprehended their empty, broken shuttle -they were truly stranded here - and imagined watching his crewmates go through an illness that would lead to death. Thought of contacting Trip's parents to tell them another of their children had died. The whole Tucker family, their agony, the tears, the consolations and regrets and condemnations. But perhaps even more agonizing: the lack of reaction when he would tell Malcolm's parents; a quiet duo sitting in a fussy, formal room with detached interest.

And all that would only happen if he himself survived.

He swallowed and ducked his head, allowed the useless worries to ebb before saying steadily to Trip, "We'll keep trying to rouse him, and then go back to the barracks and see if they have a doctor and a place to stay. We don't have anything here to help him." He looked around the silent, dark shuttle.

Heedless of their worry and attention, in a fevered state, Reed was remembering and dreaming.

…

Malcolm was five years old and as excited as a child could possibly be. His father had been promoted to Captain so an official ceremony was to take place aboard the fleet's flagship, laying at double anchor in the offing near Portsmouth, where Malcolm and his family lived.

He had grown up hearing stories about great naval battles and ships and was an avid reader already of children's age-of-sail stories. His sheets and pillows had a Man'O'War pattern on them, and his most prized possession was a model replica of the HMS _Speedy_, a famous brig-rigged sloop, that he'd built himself.

And now for the first time he was going aboard a real ship! His father has refused his desire previously because he thought Malcolm too young. Of course, like most children in Portsmouth, Malcolm had learned to sail before he could ride a bike and could handle a small pinnace or the like near shore, but never had he been on a true working ship of His Majesty's Royal Navy. Malcolm's birthday had incidentally coincided with the promotion and it was decided the time had come for his introduction to the service.

In the small cutter that would transport them from land to ship, the child sat near his father and watched to quay grow further and further away. His heart strained in delight and he attempted to maintain the poise and dignity his father always demanded from him ("you are a Reed, boy, act like one!"). The large naval ship was hull-up and would take little time to reach.

His father sat tall and proud dressed in his finest uniform with new epaulettes - professional and Bristol fashion. Although he was not a loving or affectionate man, in this moment Malcolm was so proud to be his son and tried to sit upright too.

A funny feeling was growing and gnawing in his stomach and chest and he thought it must be excitement. But as the land fled away the sensation intensified and Malcolm found it difficult to restrain. It was an unpleasant feeling - his heart was racing and his breathing was so fast. He began to tremble and sweat and felt like a vice was squeezing his chest.

"F-Father." He said, folding his small, shaking hands in his lap.

"Yes?" The man turned his sharp, grey eyes on his son.

"I don't feel right. I don't….I don't want to be here?"

"What do you mean?" Captain Reed looked around the small transport vessel, at the large ship in the near distance and at the small boy, then said, "You mean you wish we were onboard the ship already? We are nearly there."

The boy gasped and replied, "No, I want to go ashore, please, I don't like this." There was ocean and water as far as his eyes could see. It was so deep it looked black. It pressed in on him and just below, under mere inches of wood, was an abyss deep enough to hide an entire mountain. "It's too deep, please... I don't want it." He was not a child apt to cry but his eyes were shining.

The man looked at his son with true confusion. "There is nothing you've wanted more - God knows how many times you've griped on it - than to come aboard a real fighting ship."

Malcolm felt he may faint and reached desperately for his father's hand. The two other seamen aboard were staring. "Please, father, take me b-back."

Stuart removed his hand at once and said fiercely, "Look here, sit up straight and stop this at once. Look sharp, boy. This is His Majesty's Royal Navy, not a game! You'll do as you're told and do it quick." He was looking at the child with grave disappointment and revelation.

The child was so shaky and upset that the hands rigged a Bosun's chair to get him aboard (an ignominious entrance). Once there he was taken below and only after the surgeon administered a sedative did the ceremony commence. Malcolm missed the whole thing in his anxious stupor. His father did not return with him, did not even come to see him, and sent the loblolly boy instead.

Malcolm's grandfather met them at the port and had a conversation with the medical assistant. Malcolm was so sleepy that he allowed himself to be carried home. His grandfather, who himself served in the Navy as an ordinance officer, asked him, "What happened, dear boy"

"Grandfather, I was afraid. I was so scared. The water was everywhere, under me, and if I was to fall in I would just sink and sink and sink to the bottom in the dark." He said this incredulously.

"But Malcolm, you love the sea! I thought you wanted to follow in the family tradition. You can swim a bit already and handle your little craft well enough."

The child hid his screwed-up face but did not cry. "I do! I do love it, in books and stories and near shore, in shallow water. But it's different when you're out there, it's horrid."

The disappointment in his grandfather's eyes was only exceeded by the child's own.

…

Malcolm awoke as if from a nightmare, the terror and crushing weight of that childhood memory filed away was suddenly fresh and painful. He was confused and disoriented when he found Trip sitting next to him with a relieved look on his face.

"Hey buddy, welcome back."

"Have I been somewhere?" Reed asked dazedly. He saw he was in a shuttle and not in a naval vessel, and his world seemed to right itself.

"You've been unconscious, you're sick." Trip looked pale and worried and squeezed Malcolm's arm through his jacket. "You wouldn't wake up, and you were having a night terror."

Reed lay for some time, taking stock of himself. He felt hazy and out of step, slightly breathless. "It was a memory, a bad one."

Trip shot him a sympathetic look. "It sounded like one." Trip eyes traced over him as he shifted around.

The captain came over in relief and squatted down. "Glad to see you awake, Lieutenant. How are you feeling?"

"Fine, Sir." Reed replied quickly, suddenly wary as realization dawned that not only had he fallen asleep on his watch and left them vulnerable, but he'd been dreaming in his sleep in front of his senior officers.

The two older officers exchanged a knowing, exasperated look before responding.

"You're not 'fine' Malcolm, you're sick." Trip countered impatiently.

Archer continued, "And we're going back to the base if you're up for walking. We need supplies and tools." He knew his officer well enough he didn't add, "And help for you," although it was the truth.

"If you think that's best, sir," Reed said slowly. He was reluctant to return to the alien base, unarmed and unable to protect themselves.

"Yes, let's go." Archer obviously felt the concern was outweighed by their need.

On the trek to the Bavellian base Reed felt like he was hiking at high altitude. He tried to control his breathing and felt a rush of self-consciousness when he couldn't. His joints ached and his stride became stilted as the minutes passed. His crewmates insisted they stop several times to rest.

A small room with one bed and minimal provisions were all that could be afforded, but Archer was grateful for even this.

He thought Reed would argue when he ordered the man to rest, so his concern swelled when Malcolm simply stretched out, breathing rapidly and blinking faster, and fell into a sleep so sudden it might better be called a faint.

And in his fevered dreams, Reed remembered.

...

Malcolm's sister Madeline was younger but she was a handsome, strong girl and actually bigger than him at this age. They were playing near a small, sandy stretch of Portsmouth shore while their grandparents watched on distantly. It was a cloudy September day and they splashed and ran and looked at rocks and gulls.

Today was Malcolm's ninth birthday and his father was on a tour of duty in the Mediterranean. His mother was visiting him for a large dinner party to celebrate his promotion to Admiral, but Malcolm and Maddie hadn't been invited. Malcolm knew this was his fault. Ever since he'd had a panic attack onboard his father's vessel he and Maddie had been barred from visits. Stuart Reed had been outraged and ashamed of his son that day.

Maddie was the only person in the world he could talk to. His parents were disinterested in their children - procreating had been a responsibility more than a desire - and Malcolm had no close friends. He was a shy, lonely child.

But Maddie loved her quiet, punctilious brother and she didn't care if he was terrified of drowning and didn't care about missing a silly, formal ceremony full of boring adults– she thought this much more fun. "Merci, mon ami - this beats a dinner party! Catch me, Mally!" She teased joyously.

"Don't you call me that, you brat!" He chased the towheaded girl to the surf and they splashed and shrieked as children do.

But suddenly Malcolm tripped. He fell into the ocean awkwardly, hard enough to stun himself. Inhaled a mouthful of salt water as he lay paralyzed. Then he panicked. He rolled away in terror, coughed and choked and scrubbed the salt water from his face and eyes.

It was minutes later when he came back to himself. Maddie was holding him, and she was crying and speaking softly to him. "It's ok Mal."

"Sorry." He gasped. "Silly." He was not crying but he felt like his heart might just shake out of his chest. He felt sick. "Stupid." He hissed.

"It's not!" She cried out hotly. Their grandparents were coming down towards them to investigate the ruckus.

"It's not silly or stupid, Mal." She repeated. "There is nothing wrong with being afraid. I'm afraid of spiders, and that's not silly, 'cause they're just terrible!" She gave him a big, solid hug.

"Father and Mother, even Grandfather, they hate me for it. They think me weak."

"Why do you care what those stuffy, old people think?" She said scornfully.

Malcolm looked at her askance. "Like it or lump it, they're family Maddie."

"I won't like it!" She exclaimed. "I don't like them, and they don't like us."

"Maddie, you musn't, that's our parents." He reproved.

Before their grandparents quite arrived, she said in a hard voice, "It's true. We are alone, I have you and you have me but besides that we're alone."

…

"We're alone…alone." Reed repeated over and over.

Trip was perched by his crewmate on the bed. Reed was shivering and white to the lips. "He's febrile, hallucinating, Captain he doesn't even know where he is."

The situation was grim – several unproductive days later and the only change was Reed's declining condition. There had been no communication from Enterprise and no headway on repairing the shuttle.

Archer thumped to his knees on the other side and reached over in the dim light to examine his officer. Reed looked as sick as anyone Archer had seen, except perhaps his own father, Henry, on his deathbed. Archer felt a tight coil form in his gut as he noted Reed's strained, dazed expression and soft mumblings. The Bavellian doctor had been little help these past days.

Reed was in a state: semiconscious, febrile, and restless. Unable to eat or drink well, he had lost weight and color. Archer feathered carefully over a weeping rash that had appeared on Reed's knuckles and palms and spread up to his officer's arms and chest. His skin otherwise had a yellow ill-favored hue. Loosening the laces of Reed's shirt revealed shallow, rapid breathing and an audible hitch.

It was obvious the man was in pain but less apparent was the focal point. Certainly the skin rash and hoarse breathing were not comfortable, but Reed guarded his abdomen most of all - even while semiconscious.

"Malcolm, what's wrong with your stomach, are you nauseated or it something hurting there?"

"Pardon?" Reed seemed to have lost the ability to comprehend. He restlessly shifted, cloudy eyes straining to focus on the voice.

"Lieutenant!" Archer failed to get a response. He perched on the bed and sighed, watching his officer with impotent worry.

It felt very like his father's sickbed in the late stages of Clarke's disease, the progressive neurological illness that had taken his beloved parent from him all too soon. The grief had never left him, never faded, it was always there under the surface. His father had been the closest mentor and companion of his life, then he had died and suffered to the very end. Jonathan could still not bear the memories.

He abhorred the loss of dignity and self the illness had caused his father. The thought of his armory officer - such a private, reserved man - enduring a similar experience on this scarred and desolate land was mortifying. He could look up at the night sky and see Enterprise in synchronous orbit, so close yet unreachable, help just a short shuttle-ride away.

Unsuccessful was the word he ascribed to his years-long struggle for friendship with Malcolm. No one could say for lack of trying, but they had rarely been able to connect. Malcolm had never given Archer a chance really, so twisted up in rank and duty and 'Yes Sirs,' he could not see Archer as a person instead of his commanding officer.

That being said, Archer was unsurprised at the depth of protective and anxious thoughts rolling through his mind as he knelt at the bedside in the dark room. Over the years Malcolm and Archer had developed a friendship of sorts, however they couldn't be considered bosom companions. Archer liked the man deeply, both on a personal and professional level. The span of years with his ship in Reed's secure care and many trials had bred respect and eventually an unshakable loyalty.

Malcolm was a steadfast and capable officer - perhaps overly by the book – but the man had his foibles. His personality was one of conflictions; he was extremely proficient and professional, yet also sensitive and sometimes overbearing. His paradox of traits took time to understand and know. Through the years Archer had grown to truly depend on Reed, not just for his adroit skills but for his complex character too. Malcolm may not be the easiest person to get to know but there was no better man at your back.

Archer looked over the prone figure at Tucker and asked, "What did the doctor say when he came last night?"

"The same he always says, said the chances are fifty/fifty. Said you and I are ok; we'd be sick by now if we were susceptible. Said there's no cure, just supportive care and time-"

"Fine, sir, I'm fine." The sick man interrupted.

Archer shook his head and sighed heavily. The armory officer was at times, it must be admitted, wearisome. He was a trying patient and Phlox had been challenged many times looking after the man. The job fell to them now and it was not an easy one.

Aside from a difficult convalescent, Reed had other idiosyncrasies that set Archer's teeth on edge: he was insatiably formal, he unfairly expected others to emulate his perfectionism, and he expected a level of professionalism from those above and below him that was constricting. Archer maintained privately that Trip or Mayweather or just about anyone aboard was easier to work with.

But Reed pledged his loyalty and self to the deepest degree, he would do anything possible for the security of his ship and crew. On multiple occasions he'd risked his life beyond the call of duty (and Reed did it with aplomb). Reed's positives far outweighed his negatives.

His most unexpected negative had been the betrayal via section 31. For someone who regarded loyalty and duty as deeply as Malcolm, to have him lapse in that was incomprehensible. Over time Archer had realized the vast and incalculable range of grey areas Malcolm had been forced to work within for Starfleet Intelligence. For someone who cherished honesty and duty it must have been awful for Malcolm, and the fact that the man had found some way out was commendable. But why had his officer become involved with the semi-official Section in the first place?

Archer had been forced to work in areas more grey than he liked during the tribulations of the Expanse. This experience helped him understand, but he never could fully absolve the personal betrayal.

"Keep him hydrated, Trip, I'll sit him up to help his breathing. And let's clean this rash up with some soap and water." They had rudimentary medical training only but would do the best they could.

Unaware on their concern and care, Reed dreamed and remembered.

…

"My dear boy!" The officer clapped Malcolm's shoulders kindly and faced Admiral Reed. "He's precious rare I tell you, sir. Born to serve in His Majesty's Royal Navy. May I remark sir, never have I seen a young gentleman take to the sea like your boy here. Not one missed wear or even a missed tack, the dear, nor a misstep at all, and never an extra trip to the head so as to empty a weak stomach."

The naval officer laughed heartily and continued, "No sir! Which from the moment we left Spithead, and that in a fine topgallant breeze so the _Zephyr_ rolled in a vile cross-canter motion, God bless her, he took to her capering like a fish to water. Scampered up to the foretop and then maintop yesterday's forenoon watch using the futtock shrouds like a proper seaman. And he's popular with the officers and hands alike."

The lieutenant felt a real affection for the boy (bred to be a sailor by birthright no doubt) who was hardworking and had a disciplined mind for one so young. The other officers shared his opinion but they coming from traditional, strict naval families, in the presence of an admiral felt at a loss for words. From a hierarchical standpoint and traditional naval manners, the subordinate officers were not to speak unless spoken to.

However, this friendly lieutenant had come up the ranks from afore the mast, that is to say as a common sailor, and being from a family of admittedly no great genteel etiquette, he felt little compunction upon speaking directly to the admiral - who was here as visiting guest after all and not in any official capacity.

Malcolm held his breath for a moment, sure his father would berate the course-bred lieutenant for speaking out of turn. But despite Admiral Reed's distaste for loquacious junior officers, he said nothing. Instead, he turned to Malcolm, reaching a hand out to grasp his son's shoulder through the wool coat. Malcolm stood fast and did not flinch, a remarkable feat considering the countless numbered times his father had struck him a sharp blow.

Looking up to his father's weather-beaten face, Malcolm was amazed to see an expression of pride and admiration, something he'd never imagined the features capable of possessing. His father's engraved scowl lifted and the lips curled up which removed years off the sharp features. His father had slightly crooked incisors and a dimple on the right side; it was the first time Malcolm had noticed, perhaps the first smile he had ever seen from the man.

The cold grey eyes that sat deep in his stern face lightened and Malcolm wondered that they were an agreeable color, like the very ocean upon which they sailed; not a trace of the menacing wine-dark hue that haunted Malcolm in his nightmares. Instead their stormy grey was more akin to a white-capped roller he'd seen just yesterday near Gibraltar.

"Scaled the foretop you say? See, he never was much of an athlete by land." Admiral Reed scanned his son's small body scathingly and turned to the officer. "The boy has big shoes to fill, I dare say." A clipped and precise voice. "Indeed his great uncle was lost in the _HMS Clement, _if you recall that tragedy. Generations of Reeds trace back beyond record, all having served honorably and many to their deaths in the service, not to mention his mother's side, nee Moore, that worthy name having a long line of capable Marine seafaring men to it."

The lieutenant smiled broadly. "I daresay he's a twig off both the family trees' to be sure, sir. Having served under a Commander Moore, which we called Captain Moore respectful-like, seeing as he was master and commander of ship, I can attest he is the very thing. Would there be any relation at all?"

"Indeed, my second cousin once removed. Fine young man, went to sea at ten and never on dry land again but for the odd shore leave, did all his schooling with the new-fangled distance learning program from the Academy and has his own sloop now, I daresay, as weatherly and clean lined as any commander could wish."

He then said to his son, "I am that pleased to hear you are upholding our family name."

Aside from lectures Malcom had scarcely heard his taciturn father speak so many words in a row and he was gob-smacked. This man was like a stranger. A totally separate person from dry land. In his element he was engaging, polite, and expressive.

Malcolm wanted to revel in the approval, in his father's pleasant alter-ego, this being the first time in his life he could remember his father expressing anything beyond detached disapproval or outright disregard. However he felt a deep discomfort in his stomach as he remembered the reason he'd scaled the foretop so quickly was a desire to remove himself as far from the ocean as possible; HMS _Zephyr_, being a third-rate frigate with 64 guns (undeniably rather small and old), rode low in the water.

The height had seemed an escape from the crushing weight of ocean so near. And he hadn't felt seasick at all because his stomach was so full of butterflies he couldn't eat more than a nibble of soft tack these many days.

He'd never minded heights and he wished fervently his family had come from a lineage of airmen rather than sailors. Flying was infinitely more appealing to the 10-year-old than skimming over an ocean of innumerable depths with nothing but a few feet of aged wood between him and a wet grave. The ocean was a constant enduring force upon which Malcolm resisted, it terrified him both awake and in dreams. The sheer power and apathetic danger of water seemed worse every day. He enjoyed the discipline and routine of Navy life, if it only weren't for the water. Perhaps a ship in the air or even space would be better?

In the modern Royal Navy most vessels consisted of state-of-the-art ships powered by solar and hydrogen fueled propulsion systems rather than sails. However, being a service profoundly steeped in tradition the Navy did maintain a sizable fleet of square-rigged frigates, sloops, and ships-of-the-line, carefully reproduced as close to original specification as possible with only a few modern allowances for emergencies.

Members of the service were required to complete training on the traditional ships and learn the use of sextants, compasses, sails, star charts – the whole shooting match. Those that desired to serve on modern vessels did so. But those that reveled in sailing a ship under her own power and honing abstruse skills from the age-of-sail remained. The Royal Navy, much like the enduring royal crown, belonged to a bygone era steeped in tradition. In the modern age of world peace, a career in the Navy was more nostalgic than crucial but still highly respectable in England.

To explain his terror of drowning in the sea was impossible, simply put. The phobia was inborn. Even before an unfortunate incident involving a schoolyard bully and a fountain, it was there. Sailing or rowing little crafts as a child brought less joy for him than the other children in Portsmouth, and he never strayed far from shallow seas and shorelines.

And of course there was The Incident during his father's promotion to captain. The fear was as much a part of him as the color of his eyes or hair, his thin often-pursed lips and slightly cat-like way he in which he walked. It was simply him.

And it was the burden of his life. How was he supposed to complete weeks at sea? Or a lifetime?

He was here because his father had secured him a spot in the ranks of a trusted colleague for an introductory six-week voyage to the Cape of Good Hope. Per custom, hopeful young men and women could serve as children in a volunteer status, much like an apprenticeship, and take up official positions in the Navy at 16 as a sub-lieutenant or unrated seaman.

Malcolm had not been consulted when his father pulled him away from his life that summer to place him aboard the _Zephyr_. He'd lectured his silent son on the walk to Portsmouth's naval yard, "You'll learn more at sea than a classroom or that boy-scout rubbish could teach. Sure you've outgrown your ridiculous aversion to open water."

Such a monumental burden Malcolm carried; these great expectations of his father, not to mention a whole long line of Reed's long dead and gone, many number of them buried at sea, their spirits judging him with disdain as he anxiously toiled aboard the infernal, cavorting ship that whole summer through.

He ate little those long weeks and talked less, doing his duties quietly and intently. His appetite waned not for sea sickness, which he felt none, but for his constant anxiety and lowness of spirits. He'd known his whole life water was an issue, but to face this issue head on, only to discover this problem was ever so worse than he'd expected, drove him to despair. He shut off to the world around him, practiced mindfulness towards the smallest tasks and avoided the taffrail at all costs. He never swam, not even in a sail draped over the side for the youngsters in quiet seas.

Malcolm survived the summer but came back from that first tour a stone lighter than he'd left, wan and underweight and quiet.

His father was so pleased with him, couldn't stop asking him about the journey, commed him almost every day.

Thereafter his school summers were all spent at sea, and each time he would come home a lean waif, and each year he seemed to be left behind compared to his contemporaries.

He was slowly loosing this battle against the salt air and sea.

…

"Father…" Malcolm pleaded brokenly. "Stand by the capstone there while we beat to quarters and give you a broadside to be proud of…" He trailed off and restlessly shifted in bed.

They tried to still him. Murmuring a few words of comfort and adjusting the blankets. Malcolm shook the thick layers back and pawed at Archer's sleeve like an ingratiating child. "If you please, sir? Let me show you."

Archer replied in an official tone, but gently, trying to orient him, "Lieutenant Reed, its ok, you're ill, just be still. It's Captain Archer, your father is not here." Gently he rubbed Malcolm's hand between his own, working at the tender skin carefully.

Surprising him, Reed suddenly grasped Archer's soothing hands within both his blistered palms, twining their fingers, atypically intimate.

"Father, sir, I will exculpate myself! My dishonorable discharge from the service, you must understand..." He pulled their hands to his chest, despairingly. "Forgive me! When the ship foundered, being only a sub-lieutenant, such little power…the last out, last living man on deck, sure she could not be saved...on her beam-ends."

Archer and Tucker exchanged dubious looks and tried to quiet Reed's fractured confessions.

"Quit telling us all your secrets Mal, you'll be mad as a hornet about it later and less mysterious to boot." Trip chided, cleaning his neck and face with a soft towel.

Reed swallowed and gasped out, pianissimo, "All in my power, I was not to blame!" Quietly but with such vehemence he finished, his weak voice loosing little fortitude. "No man could have done it, in that wretched icy sea, fothering! So near the fourties with waves like mountains."

Malcolm pulled away from them now. "Sure I should drown." He shut his eyes and turned into the pillow.

A bit rattled, Trip adjusted the blankets again and gingerly wiped the sweating face. Reed's breath was shuddering and his respirations were more strained. These hurts were long in the past, and Trip could not absolve them.

Trip and Archer were close friends but even so the situation was delicate. The engineer felt he had to comment - that the delirious statements not confronted may fester with time. "I had no idea" Tucker admitted to his Captain.

"Nor I." Archer allowed. "It's not on his official record."

"It must have destroyed him to be dishonorably discharged from the Navy." Trip paused and added, "But he entered Starfleet Academy at eighteen, he'd be just a teen when this all happened!"

"They start young in that service, but how he served on a traditional ship at all is a mystery to me, with aquaphobia." Silence met Archer's observation and he glanced at Trip's blank expression. "Oh, you didn't know?"

"No, how would I?"

"You're his closest friend Trip, I just assumed." He ran a hand over his face. "I'm sorry Malcolm," he said to the prostrate figure, who only blinked dully in his general direction but gave no reprimand. "Anyway, he's delusional, he may be just spouting nonsense, my father was the same, in the end, nothing real, nothing that made sense."

Trip paused to give the painful admission of Henry Archer time to stand then shook his head, "It's true, gotta be. It explains a lot about him, actually."

Archer silently agreed but didn't respond out of respect for his officer's privacy, already irrevocably breached. It did answer some questions. Like perhaps how a straight-laced junior officer found his way into a nebulous group like Section 31. With a dishonorable discharge on his record, gaining entry in Starfleet academy would have been impossible without someone backing him. The group would then have had power over the young officer and influence on his career. He would have been trapped.

"Rest easy, Malcolm," Archer ordered.

Malcolm, as usual, obeyed orders. He drifted off into his past.

...

His father lectured at him the summer he was 14. Together they sat in the stern of small gig carrying them away from the quay. "Sure it's not a comely fare, but the onboard rations are hardy and nurturing, boy.' He cast an unimpressed eye down his son's frame. "Ought not you to take your fill, to grow strong like your cousin Captain Moore? There's a strapping man, must be sixteen stone at least and all brawn. Malcolm, whether it's right or no, people will judge you as quick as look at you."

He responded quietly that the grand ocean intimidated him. That living aboard the wooden hulk sapped his strength and energy. He wanted to serve, but he'd be better used in His Majesty's service on shore – perhaps in the Army (as weaponry did interest him mightily). The response was rote for all the times he'd repeated it these past years.

"Rubbish, you are a seaman every cell in your body, or you're no son of mine. Past childish fear bears no weight for a man of your age." A calculating study of the dark-haired boy next to him then he continued. "Plenty of weaponry aboard a ship! Look at those great guns: cannons, carronades, nine-pounders, small arms, and the best Gunner in the service to teach you on the _Zephyr_."

The cutter hooked on and they came up the Starboard side to much piping and ceremony, Stuart being an admiral.

Before taking his leave his father roughly shook him and admonished, "Don't you come home looking like a half starved wraith and put your mother and Madeline in a tizzy. Eat up well and do the family name proud. Your own sister could beat you in a game of strength, god bless her. 'tis not enough just to show up, a Reed must do better."

He did his best to fulfill his duty and destiny as a Reed. By 16, Malcolm no longer had plans or dreams for his life. He lived in a chronic state of ascetic self-sacrifice.

Officially, he accepted his commission with no argument, a passenger in his own life, eager to do anything for a fleeting look or expression of approval, hard-earned and short-lived. The approval of his superior officers, father, colleagues, and family fortified him daily. And to receive a glimpse of crooked incisors under a dimpled smile from his father during rare visits aboard was as a sunbeam breaking through the clouds.

His personality naturally tended towards stoicism and the words of notable men like Marcus Aurelius spoke to him deeply in this trying time. He used to repeat one verse over and over: _Be content with what you are and wish not change; nor dread your last day nor long for it_.

He came to believe his purpose in life was to rise above his fear. This defined him.

Until life took an abrupt turn when a murderous squall hit the _Zephyr _eight months into his first official tour.

The ship had rounded The Horn without issue, an endeavor of difficulty requiring great skill. As they made their way north, a wicked pressure change caused a sudden drop to the barometer. The Captain had called into the weather corps to confirm a squall of magnificent proportions was fast building. The storm too strong and sudden for even a shuttle to evacuate the crew, and bio-transporters, in their infancy, never yet used on humans.

The _Zephyr_, being ornery with a tendency to steer wild, did not scud well in the typhoon. She broached-to and was crippled as the crew tried their upmost to save her. The Captain and first Lieutenant both were injured in the driving rains and carried below to be tied into the violently swinging sick berth hammocks.

The second lieutenant, promoted to his position through nepotism rather than skill, was ineffectual and succeeded only in hastening the Zephyr's demise. If the crew had not adjusted and outright ignored his roared orders (ostensibly 'on account of the fearsome howling wind'), they would have been lost all-hands.

Malcolm saw this building disaster with the clarity of a boy who'd spent many years at sea with a knack for the art of sailing. He countermanded several foolish orders subtlety.

Last ditch efforts found the incompetent Lieutenant ordering preparations for a fothering sail, a complex procedure to seal a hull breech. This was a tried and true method to salvage a damaged ship but improper for this situation, when the barky was coming apart at every seam rather than from a discrete hole.

With ten feet of water in the well and rising fast, directed action was needed to save the lives of the crew. Malcolm knew this to be a fact, and the idea of over a hundred hands going down with the ship for a pretentious cove to achieve posthumous honor was reprehensible.

"You there, Reed, you take the hawser here, made fast to this fothering sail, dive over the larboard side straightaway, slip under her hull, take a good breath first mind you, and pop back up starboard side, quick as you like."

It was dangerous, impossible, stupid, even for the strongest of swimmers, but certainly for sub-lieutenant Reed, who was well known to have no skill in swimming.

"Sir, I will not, the ship must be abandoned, nothing will save her." He argued.

"The devil to you, do as I say!" The officer was furious.

"You would murder this crew for your own arrogance! Drown us all?"

The thought of letting the nightmare win, of sinking down in the unforgiving and uncaring depths for nothing, gave Malcolm all the fortitude he needed to do what he must.

He ordered the quartermaster's mate and two strong men over. "Look lively there, men! The Lieutenant's not in his right mind, has suffered a blow to his head!" He told them to take the officer below, by force if needed, and that he was taking command. The men didn't hesitate.

It was grave insubordination, mutiny, but the hands loved him for it and lived because of the decision. The young officer commanded the crew to man the pumps and prepare the gig, cutter, and jolly-boats to abandon ship. He trimmed the few sails left to bring the wind on her quarter so the frigate's demise was slowed to such a point that the entire crew was able to escape. He used every trick in the book to save her just a few more minutes.

The sick feeling in his gut waxed as he watched, bobbing in the jolly-boat, the _Zephyr_ on her beam-ends. Then she foundered.

His actions certainly saved the lives of the crew. But at his court-martial the only things of importance were: insubordination, mutiny, and that under his illegal command the ship was lost. It mattered little to the admiralty that he felt the ruined hull was beyond salvage or that his actions saved over one hundred lives. Their concern was ever with rank, deference, and obeying orders no matter what. Did he not know that orders were the very foundation upon which civilizations rest?

Unluckily, the Lieutenant he'd mutinied was the son of a Duke and had a superiority complex made absolute by the acknowledged general truth that he was a poor seaman and poorer officer. Reed's father was a man of rank but certainly no Lord, in fact no Reed in their long line had ever held a title.

"He refused my order of fothering, it would have saved the ship surely. He lacks fortitude and honor – and he is a coward! He cannot bear the water, like a cat he is. A danger to himself and his men. He has no business being at sea!" The lieutenant said passionately.

Reed could not deny his insubordination, not under oath, nor his inability to follow the orders and his fear of drowning. He did maintain that nothing would have saved that ship.

But his shame was brought to light.

His father left the hearing midway through, turned his back on his only son.

The sentence was passed; the Articles of War stated clearly that mutiny and insubordination were offenses inexcusable. Malcolm was cashiered from the service. He was commended for the lives he'd saved but condemned for not following the chain of command. If he'd done so, they said, he could have saved both the ship and her crew.

He was shocked to feel mostly relief; the crushing shame came later. To be rid of the daily burden of this phobia, to be allowed to live away from the source of daily privations and nightly terrors was beyond his imagination. He'd given up any other life years ago, resigned to fate.

But the way in which he'd gained this release was the most dishonorable and shameful experience in his short life.

His father did not speak to him for years

When he graduated from Starfleet academy he received a pre-recorded communication. It was the last direct message he ever received from his father

"Ensign Reed, I need not remind you that your career in Starfleet could not possibly be more disappointing than your career in His Royal Navy. When the chips are down do not forget to always follow orders, no matter what. D'ya hear me? No matter what. Your Captain is your King, you would do well to remember that. You have brought a lifetime of shame to your family name and me. You need not add to it."

…

Several more nights and days of febrile musings and worsening illness had passed. As Reed emerged from this particularly grievous memory he repeated those words heard so long ago: "Captain…my King."

Trip would have found this comment amusing in another situation, especially from Reed, but the sick man was too far gone to tease.

Days into the fulminate illness found Malcolm bedridden. No food or water passed his lips but a few reluctant sips here and there. His skin was still a disagreeable yellow, his breath labored more often than not, and the angry rash continued to spread. Worst of all, the man was often delirious and unhappy, always uncomfortable despite best efforts to help him.

Although it was trite. Trip reluctantly admitted his comrade looked diminished, like his body was fading. Had Malcolm always been so slight under his quiet strength? The small hands were almost boyish, laying lax and curled on his narrow chest. The loose shift he'd been dressed in gaped at the neck. His sharp-boned face, usually striking, now looked unwholesome. Trip had never judged Malcolm's capabilities on physical appearance (made a point not to hold superficial attributes against a person), but under the brawn his friend was so spare.

"You'd just kill me if I said out loud what I thinking." Trip admitted.

"What's that?" Reed answered darkly.

Surprised at a response, Trip said, "Never mind, can I do anything for you?" He adjusted himself in front of [AM1] Malcolm and forced an encouraging veneer onto his exhausted and worried face.

Reed's grey eyes were bright and dilated and could not track well. He was unable to appreciate Trip's effort.

"Where's Doctor Phlox?" He asked instead, looking dazedly around.

"We're not on the Enterprise Mal, still on the planet. Do you remember, the EM survey mission?"

Reed paused for so long Trip thought he'd lost him again, but then he responded, "Yes, I remember. I was…sick? We went to repair the shuttle."

"Yeah, for all our troubles we find a useless pile of disabled rubble, nothing usable. Then when you got worse, we returned here, to care for you, do you remember that?

"I'm sorry, Commander." He tucked one arm under his back awkwardly, tried to shift around. "You and the Captain, you should focus on escape, leave me be."

"Aw Malcolm, we should have taken bets on how long it would take you to pull out that stupid line. The three of us are staying together and all three of us are getting off the planet. Together."

Malcolm was becoming agitated and his breathing quickened. His body tensed Trip saw an intense shiver run through him, over in a few seconds.

The doctor had comforted them last night that Reed seemed to be improving and estimated the clinical signs would regress and the weight loss should be reversible and self-limiting.

That shivering happened again, and Trip had a dark feeling about it. "Just relax Mal, Doc said you're doing all right."

Jonathan entered their room with a small box of provisions. He'd done well with their hosts, securing their allotted ration of food, water, towels, and the promise of a recheck from the base doctor.

"How are we?" He queried, sitting down with a soft groan - he'd walked several miles that day on reconnaissance.

"A little better maybe, still won't eat. Can't seem to get comfortable but doesn't want help." Trip answered for the sick man, gestured to the body twisted awkwardly in bed.

"Here." Archer leaned over and matter-of-factly deposited Reed onto one side, straightened his legs then wedged a pillow between his knees and behind his back. "Better, Malcolm?"

Trip raised an impressed brow.

"Yessir." Malcolm forced out.

Archer arranged him a bit more when he observed the guarded and shallow breathing, He took weight off the chest by manhandling Reed's arms off his sides. The captain crammed a towel under his neck to help straighten it.

"It's all right Malcolm." He responded. "Anything you need? Just ask, now's not the time to be shy."

"Sir, nothing."

Reed was braced more so than settled but aware enough to look affronted, so Archer let him be for now.

"When Dad died, he'd been sick for years, I took a leave of absence from flight school, Mom was too wrecked to care for him alone. He was delusional and paranoid in the end, wouldn't trust strangers, but I didn't mind helping."

Reed was still trying to get his breath and dignity back but nodded to show his attention. Then he said, words picked judiciously. "I apologize that this brings back dif-difficult memories, sir."

"It's not your fault you're sick, Malcolm. Just get better, and that's an order."

"Of course, sir…" Reed's breath caught hard as his body shuddered again, worse now, a full seizure.

"Damn it!" Trip shouted reaching forward.

For several seconds Reed trembled, muscles spasmodic.

Archer jumped up to support him opposite Trip and prevent a fall.

When it stopped Malcolm almost immediately retched a mouthful of bile into his cupped palms. "W-what?" He looked confused and startled. He tried to wipe his hands clean on the blankets, but Archer intercepted them with a ready towel.

"You're okay, it wasn't bad. Just a short seizure from the fever." Archer actually was distressed but determined not to show it. His words were aimed at both officers, because Trip looked far more distraught than Malcolm who was currently in a postictal vacancy.

As he cleaned Reed's hands their faces were quite close. The long-lashed, light eyes peered at the Captain deferentially. "You shouldn't…"

Archer shushed him. "Nothing to worry about," and kept wiping.

The three sat close together, Trip still grasping Malcolm's back supportively, Archer holding his hands loosely after cleaning them; both prepped for another seizure. Reed was limp but started to emerge from his daze. Minutes passed with bated breath, and when another episode failed to happen they all relaxed.

Reed spoke into the silence with a strange, solemn tone. "You will never know sir, the regret I feel…."

Tactfully retreating, Trip went to try and fetch the doctor.

Jonathan released the hands with an encouraging pat. "I understand. And you are forgiven, wholly and irrevocably."

The eyelids flickered then closed. "Thank you," Reed whispered, "Father."

Archer was nonplussed, but felt no regrets when he simply replied, "Of course."

…

"What happened, is he worse?" The Bavellian doctor demanded that evening.

"He had a seizure." Archer stated, withdrawing tiredly from the bedside.

The doctor nodded. "How wholesome."

The two humans exchanged dismayed looks. "That last part translated poorly Doctor, what did you say?"

"I simply stated how healthy it was he had a fit. That almost always accompanies a turn from bad to good in this fever. He certainly will survive if Humans are anything akin to Bavellians."

Archer explained, "For humans, seizures are usually a sign of severe neurologic disease."

"Indeed, it is similar with our physiology, but in this case it is truly a good sign."

Trip squatted then rocked to his heels, covered his face and scrubbed at his eyes. "Are you sure?" His voice was thick with emotion.

"There will be a lingering malaise, an occasional recrudescence, depressed health. But most survive past this stage. He must eat and drink well. We have little medical supplies, have few for our own men. But his skin will be dressed and he'll be cleaned up, if you'll give me a few minutes alone."

Trip turned away as he nodded and Archer thought the man was possibly crying. He responded, "We're staying, but we'll give you room to work; he is my officer and under my care."

"As you wish, I care not." The medical officer reminded him not unkindly, "But if I give you an order, I expect you to follow it, Your Honor."

Archer acquiesced. "I understand, but we aren't part of this war on your planet. We were paroled by your government, sent here for safety, not imprisonment."

"So I am told, but here you are in this house, inhabited with enemy officers waiting to be traded. Your wounded man is being treated by the only doctor in a hundred miles, and until your people can rescue you, you are a burden on us we must care for, feed, clothe, shelter. You cannot leave, there is nowhere to go that isn't ruined earth or rubble. You are a prisoner of circumstances."

"I guess we are." He replied, gritting his teeth, powerless.

"I do not blame you, you did not ask to become stranded here. Have you been treated well?"

"Better than we hoped."

"There are those that look on you as a spy or favored prisoner. But my people will not harm you if you give them no reason." The doctor turned away and with professional detachment started in on Malcolm.

Jonathan gave him space to work and went over to Tucker. "All right?"

The engineer nodded and rubbed his nose. "I'm just not ready to lose someone else Cap'n. I'll never be ready." Trip glanced over at the man on the bed and stated, "He's the best bud I've got, aside from you. He may be a prissy bastard, but he's my _best friend._"

"You two are the embodiment of opposites attract. Well, he's really tough, there's no way he's gonna give in." Archer declared.

Tucker shook his head and his voice was brittle, "He's so strong but he's also not, sometimes." He looked at his captain and said, "He feels it's his job to be the strong one, the protector, but he forgets that he's just a man."

"He's not just a man, don't underestimate our Lef-tenant Reed." Archer purposely pronounced the rank in the British manner which earned a chortle from Trip. "He's one of the strongest willed and focused men I've ever met, he'll pull through and kick your ass for doubting him."

The medical officer left and they returned to Malcolm's side.

"All okay?" Trip asked hopefully.

"Fine." Malcolm seemed more aware but more aggrieved. H twitched unnaturally and his fingers dug into their newly applied bandages, each digit separately wrapped with care. The smell of antiseptic permeated.

"Could you eat or drink?" Trip offered, bring a few simple food items out of the box Archer had procured.

He clenched his jaw and turned into the pillow. "No."

"Will you even try?" Tucker wheedled.

Archer cast a glance at the exposed torso beneath an unlaced Bavellian shirt. His ribs and collar bones were prominent under the rash. He was losing condition quickly.

Reed repeated "No, thank you, Sir."

"I won't order you to eat, but I'd like you to try, Lieutenant." Archer treaded carefully, suggestions to Reed from a superior officer were tantamount to orders, and he didn't want to force the sick man.

"I understand."

Reed lipped at some bread they soaked in broth. Within minutes he was dry heaving, cringing silently until the spasms stopped.

"Geez Mal, take it easy, no more, we got it." Trip looked queasy himself.

Archer began on his own small meal and encouraged Trip to take some too. Hunger would take weeks to have life-threatening consequences. Thirst was the more emergent concern.

"Rest easy, Malcolm. Trip, any new ideas on contacting Enterprise?"

A sigh. "Plenty, but they all depend on technology of some kind, what I'd give for even an old radio. If these people are right, they're describing a sort of overpowered EMP, which would impede most technology, we may be left with smoke signals and homing pigeons.

Archer guffawed obediently but worry gnawed at him. "There must be something, somehow to escape this planet."

Trip countered. "This civil war is worldwide and these long acting EMPs have wiped anything electronic out. And it's continuous, not one pulse but waves. Nothing will work here, no transporters, no shuttle, nothing. Enterprise'd have to overhaul an entire pod, fashion a faraday cage around it; that'll take weeks."

"We should return to the wreckage, see if anything is salvageable."

"We tried Capt'n, it won't hurt to go back but there's nothing usable there. Everything's fried." The engineer's frustration was palpable, a man without the tools to fix their problems.

Archer consoled him, "They will find a way, T'Pol won't stop until they do. How about some shut-eye?"

Tucker nodded. "Don't mind if I do. Scooch over Mal." He joked, gingerly unfolding next to Reed.

The room had the one bed only, large enough for two but not three, so they'd taken it in turns to stretch out next to Malcolm and sleep. The chairs were comfortable enough to doze in but true deep sleep required horizontal rest.

Trip fell asleep quickly and deeply but awoke suddenly to commotion. Malcolm was seizing again and the shuddering frame had knocked into him. Tucker rolled into the fray and braced the quaking body. Archer was fast asleep in the chair, exhausted.

The two of them rode it out, a silent and tense struggle. When Malcolm stilled Trip quickly embraced him in an awkward sideways hug he'd not have attempted if his friend was hale. "Are you ok? Mal?"

Reed was coiled in a loose fetal position and grunted an affirmative, but did not respond. Tucker leaned over Malcolm's back and saw that he was hemorrhaging from somewhere, blood staining his face and pillow.

Trip climbed carefully over him and snagged a towel to dab at the mess. Reed had bit his tongue - the bleeding was already slowing, nothing too bad here. He sighed in relief.

"After all we've been through you're not allowed to die on me." Trip blinked back a film of tears as he finished wiping his friend's face. "I'm not ready to loose someone else."

"What's wrong?" Jonathan murmured, still half asleep.

"Nothing, your turn to sleep on the bed." Trip fibbed in a deceptively calm voice.

Jonathan obediently stretched out, balancing precariously on the edge so as to not disturb Malcolm.

Settling into the chair Trip tried to relax and drift off again, suppressing his generalized grief – mostly over Lizzie and Elizabeth, but also regrets and guilt for other events (T'Pol, Sim, so many hurts). He tried to appreciate the feeling of right now, the present moment; he was alive, well, with his comrades, his two best friends in the universe, in a comfortable, warm room. Tomorrow would bring challenges but tonight was for sleep.

…

The next morning Malcolm was coherent, which everyone felt must be a good sign. He was still weak but his fever seemed lower.

Reed said nothing, but it seemed to Archer that the increasing consciousness brought on proportional distress. Malcolm looked wretched, nauseated, and pained. He hardly moved or spoke all morning. His joints had begun to swell and were obviously tender. His quick, shallow breaths ended in wheezes of effort. He held one hand hard against his abdomen, trying to massage the pain away perhaps. He refused water and Archer couldn't bear to order him to eat again in this condition.

The captain had learned the hard way not to mistake Reed's stoicism for lack of feeling. The man hurt just like any other person but was adroit at hiding discomfort, a skill honed by years of training and a natural introversion. Archer also deduced that from an early age the man had been taught to have a stiff upper lip and had been shown little compassion. He discussed his worry with Trip that Malcolm was suffering more than he let on, and Trip had wholeheartedly agreed, but been unable to solve the dilemma.

Armed with the knowledge that his friend was surely suffering and habitually unwilling to ask for aid, Trip took matters more strongly into his own hands. Taking a page out of Jon's book, Trip stopped asking Malcolm what he needed, and simply took it upon himself to fold Reed's limbs and body into different positions every couple hours. It was easy to do once you figured out the leverage.

Atypically, Reed did not comment or complain other than an occasional affronted expression. Trip wanted the man to berate him and curse and tell him to 'leave the hell off' but Malcolm did not seem to care. He even thanked him once which made Trip's insides clench. _Wrong_, _wrong_!

Dehydration was a major danger. They routinely pinched the skin on Reed's hand and noted increasing turgor. Reed's pulse was racing like a bird, soft and quick, but there was an occasional arrhythmia where the pulse slowed alarmingly and he was light headed.

He spoke nothing concrete all morning until he relayed to them in a careful, raspy voice, "_Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will. To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."_

"I'd no idea you're a poet, Mr. Reed." The Captain teased gently as he sponged a little water onto the dry lips.

Reed turned away from the ministrations and responded slowly, "Tennyson. I venerated Ulysses - capital mariner."

"My hero was Armstrong, but to each his own." Archer smiled.

"Ah, _one small step..._" Reed trailed off meanderingly.

Trip butted in and said, "You may have liked some stuffy poet, Mal, but no one can beat Cochrane. Greatest hero of the age."

"Can't argue with that." Archer smiled in remembrance. "Bit eccentric though, in person."

By dusk that day the need for hydration was paramount. Trip had just rearranged their patient onto his back between bouts of sketching ideas for a mechanical communicator onto a notepad. The man was visibly dehydrated now with sunken eyes and fissured lips.

Trip was unwilling to force anything on the sick man. He didn't mind rearranging him a bit but felt Malcolm knew what he needed otherwise.

Archer decided to play the bad cop, so he braced a hand behind Reed's neck and pulled him up a bit. "You have to drink, I am making it an order now, Lieutenant."

Reed reached dutifully for the mug with both hands, Archer transferred it to him but wrapped his free hand steady over top. He tipped their shared burden the smallest amount. The man tried to swallow, choked and coughed but he couldn't quite get the timing down and most of the fluid ended up down his front.

"Again." Undaunted, Archer held the cup out for Trip to refill and slung a towel over Reed's front.

Trip filled it halfway then moved to help. He levered Reed's shoulders up, bracing his own body behind while Archer controlled the water. Reed swallowed it slowly and miserably but didn't stop until Archer relented. His teeth chattered against the ceramic mug until it was finally pulled away. Shakily he secured a hand over his mouth. Trip kept him upright, thinking gravity may help keep everything down.

No such luck. The man wretched until his taxed body lay limp while his stomach continued to rebel. They'd had to hold him up to prevent aspiration, exchanging countless worried looks while repeating aphorisms of comfort. They called several times for the doctor, but he did not come.

…

Malcolm was less responsive the next morning. After breakfast, Trip flagged down several officers and guards he knew by name, they were all very concerned to hear the guest was worse but there was nothing to be done for it beyond calling for the doctor, who would certainly come when able.

Dispirited, Trip returned to the small room and collapsed in the chair – Archer was perched on the bed next to Reed. He was leaning against the headboard and for hours had been dripping water into Reed's lax mouth with a sopping cloth.

"I've an idea, I found this music box in the closet." Tucker held up a small but heavy wooden container, beautifully decorated by an artistic hand. "All mechanical, still works fine. Instead of the rhythm it has now, I could change the gear to beat out a Morse code. I can modify it with spare parts from the shuttle, and leave it there, and if Enterprise can scan the wreckage they would pick up the repetitive sonar waves, the sounds playing over and over."

"Sounds pretty farfetched." Many of Trip's ideas sounded that way, but the engineer was ever brilliant and creative. "But even if it works, how would that help us?"

"It wouldn't get us off this rock but we could ask for supplies to be sent down, maybe a care package near the shuttle for us to pick up. A fully stocked medkit, IV lines, tools, any supplies to help us. Or warn then, not to send anyone else down until they figure out how to do it safely."

"T'Pol to cautious for that, she won't allow anyone else to get stuck here. How long of a message could it be?"

"Based on the length of the song it plays now, maybe five words, short ones."

"Let me think on the words. Go get your supplies, be careful. I can't leave Malcolm alone."

They had an unspoken acknowledgment that Malcolm would not be left, so if he seized and arrested he would not die alone. It was a grim accord.

Tucker prepared a small bag of supplies and left after saying, "Mal, hang on, I'll see you soon." He rubbed the shoulder gently, saluted Archer wryly and was gone.

"You'll be horrified to hear it's just you and me again, Lieutenant." Archer teased, harking back to the awkwardness of their first private breakfast together. He rewet the cloth.

But Malcolm did not hear, he was dreaming, remembering.

…

"Starfleet?" His father frowned in deep displeasure as he listened to his son. The boy was 18 and a quiet, fastidious, finicky thing that the Admiral both disliked and avoided. However, every now and then Malcolm was able to corner him. Since the court martial, the taciturn Admiral had little to say to this ungrateful, wretched boy.

"Yes, Sir. It's very like the Navy aside from ships sailing through space rather than ocean." Malcolm said in a hopeful tone. "Maddie suggested I apply to the Academy. I could study gunnery, weapons and the like. Like Grandfather."

Admiral Reed noticed his son had grown his hair out just a bit and allowed a little stubble on his face - he looked like a homeless vagrant, the creature.

"What ever would they do with you?" He asked coldly. "No military organization could commission you, with your record."

Malcolm replied in a controlled voice, "Starfleet's not a military organization, really. Once I applied, I was contacted by a Captain Harris, an adjunct professor, in Starfleet Intelligence - Special Forces. He was interested in me, appreciated the experience that comes with my background, said he would sponsor me."

The pale face turned beseechingly towards his father. "And seeing as I was only 16, when I was discharged, the Americans do not recognize that age as officially employed, due to their child labor laws and such."

"Rubbish, the Americans' drivel is scarcely to be believed. You would submit yourself to their supercilious rules? Starfleet!"

"It's international, sir, just based in California." Malcolm countered sturdily.

"What would prevent you from failing with them as you did with us? From betraying your commanding officer?" The elder Reed was a hard, worldly man and he wasn't trying to be outright cruel, but his son did madden him so.

The young man stood at stiff attention, eyes fixed beyond his father's right shoulder. He replied in a rigid voice, "I will do my duty as I have always tried. I want to contribute to something bigger than myself, be part of something important."

"On your own head be it. I care not what you do." His father's disinterest was genuine, and it cut Malcolm to the bone.

…

"_help EMP med aid_. Will it fit?"

"Should."

"What do you think?" Archer asked

"Not bad at all. Help me with the Morse, I'm rusty?"

Archer gave him the message scrawled on paper, along with the Morse code alphabet written out.

Trip deposited their music box in the shuttle by nightfall, wound tight enough to play all night thanks to special modifications he'd made to the gears. He was exhausted from the repeated excursions but insisted on giving Jon a break, who'd been at Malcolm's sickbed all day.

"The doctor did come finally. Changed bandages, gave a few shots and excuses. I asked him about an IV line, but he promised there are none available. Said the medical corps is bereft right now." Archer sighed and leaned back in the chair and shut his burning, tired eyes.

"The major who escorted me says things are dire here, this civil-war has been on for over forty years. After the EM and biologic weapons went into effect, they were in the dark ages. He gave me some supplies though, was really upset about our treatment here, he said it was undistinguished to ignore 'alien refugees'."

Trip pulled toiletries from his pack: razor, soap, toothbrush, and also packaged rations and a few random objects like socks and a notepad.

"Hey Mal, what do you think, 'an officer at his best is well groomed', so I've been told. Fancy a trim?" Trip displayed the razor to his crewmate, who looked at it blankly.

"I apologize sir, for my appearance." He offered slowly, watching Trip closely to gauge if he'd replied correctly.

"Aw I didn't mean it like that. Seriously, let me clean you up, you'll feel more like you again."

"Like whom?"

Trip studied him to see if Reed was kidding, but the man appeared simply confused. "Forget it, now hold still." He carefully used the straight blade and a little soapy water to great effect. He quickly brushed Reed's teeth too with a dash of tepid water. The man did protest this which raised Trip's spirits a bit.

Archer told him, "You'll go first thing in the morning to see if Enterprise has responded in any way."

"Sounds good. We'll keep brainstorming ideas in the meantime, maybe something will come to me in my sleep" Trip checked Malcolm, insisted he shift onto his side, then stretched out tiredly next to him. He banged the flat pillow to puff it up some. "What?" He asked, not unkindly, but Reed was studying him unnervingly.

"What are you doing in my quarters?"

"Not in them. Remember?" He looked patiently back at his friend.

A long pause and Trip was mostly asleep when Malcolm replied, "Yes. Thank you for, well..."

"It's what family does Mal, takes care of each other." Tucker's face was gentle, half asleep.

Reed's chest felt tighter and his eyes prickled. He was at a loss. When had they passed from crewmates to friends to family? He had no idea, and didn't know what family really was, aside from Maddie, but it felt right to agree with Trip.

…

The next morning Trip took off for the shuttle with breathless anticipation. He told himself not to get his hopes up but a way to communicate with the ship, even just a few words at a time, we be such a help.

He returned triumphant, quashing his exuberance when he entered the sick-room.

"Cap'n!" He presented a suitcase sized metal case with gusto. "I found a crashed probe with a surprise inside, about 100 yards from the shuttle.

"T'Pol's a genius!" Archer exclaimed, running through his head not only the ingenuity needed to decipher the message but the precision to crash a probe so accurately.

They used some spare tools to pry the case open as its latches had broken in the crash.

It contained several pages of written directions from Phlox in the blocky, careful script of someone unused to writing a foreign language. The medical supplies were labeled with dosages and indications. Best yet, several IV lines, fluid bags, and IV catheters had been included. Also clothing, tools, rations, and spare parts.

"Hope you remember your first aid classes." Archer said.

Trip pursed his lips doubtfully and offered, "We should get their doctor to sort this out."

"I don't trust them not to confiscate all this. Tace is Latin for a candle."

"Well, he'll see it when he come through for rounds tonight."

"Maybe so."

They kept busy all morning. It took four attempts to get an IV catheter placed. Malcolm submitted tractably with only mild interest, staring up at the ceiling and murmuring fractured snippets of Tennyson, which worried the hell out of his crewmates.

The information Phlox included was priceless. They administered IV injections for nausea, pain, and a broad spectrum antibiotic and antiviral. All three of them got an injection for possible radiation exposure as well.

The package had also contained some small electronics in EM-shielded cages and a projectile weapon.

"Where the hell did this come from?" Trip breathed.

"Probably a MACO, it's not regulation but try telling a marine that. I'll consider not pressing charges, if we get back." Archer sighed.

That evening Trip adjusted their music box again to beat out: _need rescue asap carefu_l. Archer took it this time, the gun a comforting presence in his jacket.

The doctor did not come that night which suited them perfectly. Malcolm was sitting up and keeping water down. The medications seemed to be making some headway.

But he still looked like hell, Trip silently criticized. He sat sketching near the bedside when Malcolm asked with more investment than he'd shown in days, "How long have we been here?"

He stretched and dropped the paper. "Ten days, do you remember the reason we crashed?"

"I remember. Everything." Three laconic words said with grave finality.

Trip immediately sensed Malcolm was troubled, in his own reserved way. He was more familiar with Malcolm than anyone and knew his friend's outward coolness often hid inward turmoil; still waters run deep.

He thought hard before answering, the conversation felt important and tenuous. "You remember being sick, your fever, dreams?" He finally replied carefully.

"Memories." Reed glanced up quickly, then back down. "My childhood was…strained. The fever brought it all back to the surface. I try not to think about life before Starfleet."

"You never talk about being a kid. I don't know anything about you then." He made sure to put inflection onto the words that was curious rather than remonstrative. He consoled, "Relax, you didn't say much out loud that made sense."

Malcolm expostulated, "I said enough! Dishonorable discharge. I should have cleared the air long ago. At least told you, told my Captain."

"You don't owe us that, but I'm your _friend _Mal, you _could _tell me things like that, tête-á-tête, we could help each other, you know, vis-à-vis."

"I didn't know you spoke French." Malcolm tried to joke but his heart wasn't in it.

Trip scrubbed his face and dropped his voice. "I don't pretend to know what your life was like, but I know the kind of man you are now. And I know you did the best you could in the moment." He was frustrated all he could come up with were platitudes. "Don't care what happened when you were a kid, you're a hell of an officer now, wouldn't want anyone else on my six."

Malcolm attempted smile was more a grimace. "Merci, mon ami."

"Yeah, I don't actually speak French, Malcolm." Trip shook his head and said, "Flying through space has got to beat rocking around on a boat, anyhow."

He'd said the wrong thing this time. Malcolm frowned fully. "Ship, not boat. And it depends on whom you ask. Starfleet will never measure up in my family's eyes."

"That's their mistake then." Trip shot back.

Reed gave a quiet sigh and said, "You sound just like my sister."

"Well, Madeline's as smart as she is beautiful." He tried to wink puckishly but a rush of grief welled up when he heard the word 'sister'. He pulled his spiraling thoughts quickly away from that and tried to say something to help his colleague. Instead he spat out - "Was saving the whole world from the Xindi not enough for your family, your dad?" – and regretted asking it immediately.

"The back of his hand to that," Reed responded wryly.

"It's not fair to expect children to be miniature versions of parents. It's ridiculous." Trip said vehemently.

Reed worked his jaw uncomfortably, "You're right of course, sir."

Sensing the conversation was turning decidedly negative and unhelpful, he tried to lighten it. "Oh no, none of that 'sir' stuff. We're far from the bridge of a starship." He motioned around them grandly. Malcolm never could get the hang of switching easily from on-duty persona to off-duty. Trip was pretty proud that he alone had scratched the surface to meet the real, truer person beneath; the surprisingly sensitive, righteous man who esteemed accomplishment, who was pessimistic yet droll. Bit of an adventurous streak too.

Reed's natural cynicism was evident in his next comment, "I ruined my family when I was cashiered; I'm unworthy of clemency, I deserved to be given the boot."

"A person can't 'ruin his family' for that. _He _ruined it, not you. Left ya out in the cold." Trip spoke more boldly then he'd meant, but the subject of Reed's father made him bristle. Over years of friendship small bits of information has painted a pointillistic picture of Stuart Reed. The man had been a tyrant, probably physically and certainly emotionally abusive, and likely answerable for some of Malcolm's less stellar character traits.

"This was before the Academy, so you were only a kid, Mal, a kid! You should have been having fun with camp and school and friends. What the hell were you even doing, serving at that age?"

"You don't understand Commander." Tucker rolled his eyes overtly and Reed amended, "_Trip_. It's just the way it is."

"It's wrong." Trip stated with absolute conviction. "Some of my happiest moments are my teen-years, swimming in the gulf (water warm as milk), taking apart my uncle's boat engines (loved those Evinrudes), dating girls (some I liked and some I didn't), playing with my dogs (most Heinz 57s)." He said more quietly, "Taking Elizabeth to that old movie theater (she liked the hokey monster ones best)."

Malcolm listened politely to the meandering nostalgia, gaining some degree of vicarious pleasure from it. But he stiffened at the last recollection, eyes suddenly guarded.

Trip broke off. It bothered him that Malcolm became so still and painfully attentive when he mentioned Lizzie. He tried not to be uncharitable about it, knew that he'd wounded Malcolm when he'd snapped at him about his sister in the Expanse. His friend had so wanted to help, and he'd been rejected, now his default show of support was this well-meaning, mute alertness. But Trip wished he could talk _with _someone about her, not just talk _to _someone.

Minutes passed and Trip took back up his notepad. Reed leaned back, tight lipped and brooding. He seemed to be trying to absorb the points Trip had made. He didn't appear angry (as Trip had feared he might become), but he did look doggedly attached to his ignominy and unlikely to shed it anytime soon.

They stayed in silence for a long while until Archer returned, and sensing the tension between the two men, he efficiently set up a small picnic of food. It was the best meal they'd had since the crash but Malcolm would not eat.

Trip was frustrated – he wouldn't recover without sustenance. He'd placed a nutrient patch Phlox had provided onto Malcolm's back that would supply subcutaneous vitamins but Malcolm needed food.

"Here." He proffered Reed a morsel.

Malcolm blanched and staidly refused. "I can't, Trip, I've gone longer than this and survived."

Usually careful to avoid asking about the Section, Archer deviated and broke in, "When you worked for Harris?"

Reed froze but he responded to his captain carefully, "Yes, perhaps then too. But I meant in my salad days_,_" He admitted acerbically, giving Trip a quick glance, then expounded. "When I was in the Navy."

"I get sick as a dog on boats – it's the worst," Trip groaned, remembering time on a ship during Zero-G training near New South Wales.

"Well, so I've heard." Reed answered noncommittally.

…

The next morning there was no new package or contact from their ship. Frustrated, they reminded themselves that the EM fields on the planet were so unpredictable it may be days before Enterprise could accurately scan for their message.

When Archer went to the little mess hall in the base's center to pick up their allotted rations he received news that the doctor and several Bavellian medical personnel had been killed in a skirmish ten miles outside town. The enemy soldiers had been captured of driven off, but not after doing considerable damage. When another doctor would be transferred to their little post was unknown.

He considered informing his men but opted to keep the news for now. It would stress Malcolm's recovery which was already ponderous. Although he was no longer delusional or febrile other clinical signs lingered despite Phlox's arsenal of medications. Weakness and lethargy were persistent and this morning he'd seemed more obtunded than yesterday, unable or unwilling to speak unless asked direct enquiries.

Archer laid the supplies out on the foot of the bed over a clean towel. "Well men, breakfast is served."

"Looks good, thanks Capt'n." Trip replied with forced enthusiasm. He nonchalantly gathered a few buns and went up to sit by Malcolm who was propped on the headboard. "Pretty tasty, why don't you have one?" He placed a piece of slightly stale crust into the lax hand.

Reed looked at the bun in his bandaged palm, then at Trip. "Hardtack? But we've just weighed anchor."

The captain said quickly, "You're confused Lieutenant, remember where and when we are?" He didn't want Reed slipping into a memory again.

Raising the bun to nibble at it uncertainly Malcolm looked at each of them in turn. Then he scowled a bit and said, frustrated, "Sorry, sirs, I'm all right."

Archer exchanged a significant and frustrated look with Tucker. Reed was still in a bad way, and if the Bavellian post was at risk for another attack like the one that had killed the doctor, they may need to be mobile or even ready to defend themselves.

"I've gone through everything Enterprise sent us, some of it would be useful in repairing the shuttle, if only the EM interference would attenuate some." Trip said.

"The war is waging strong as ever; according to the Bavellian guards there was an attack some 20 kilometers from here yesterday." Archer again declined disclosing the doctor's death. "I thought we could ask around, see if anyone is willing to get us into their communications center, maybe we can figure out a way to contact the ship."

Trip shook his head and said, "The way I hear it, they're as in the dark as we are. Since the warring factions started using energy weapons and EM jammers, none of the technology can be relied on."

"There must be a way, otherwise these 'energy weapons' wouldn't work." Archer said firmly. He was going stir crazy sitting around and waiting for rescue. And the treatment of Malcolm was now squarely on their shoulders with no doctor. Archer wanted his officer in sickbay under the expertise of Phlox rather than the well-intentioned but substandard care he could provide. He felt the responsibility gravely as he considered the man.

Reed was worrying at the bread but had truly eaten little. His was unfocused unless directly and firmly addressed, and even then he would pause mid speech like his brain couldn't supply words fast enough to fill a sentence. He was propped on the headboard but Archer had the feeling without support he would collapse. Worst of all, Reed's usual aversion to sick-beds in general (commonly a burden for the ever-genial Phlox) was absent. He stayed complaisantly abed with none of his usual, fractious sickbay disposition.

He'd said nothing to Trip and barely allowed himself to think it, but the protracted illness and neurologic issues might have caused true damage to Reed's mental state. He recalled the many seizures they'd gritted their teeth through and the high fever that'd burned for days.

As if sensing his thoughts, Malcolm looked directly at him, dropped his gaze quickly when he saw Archer was staring right back, and said with absolute lucidity, "If an attack is imminent we should secure defensive equipment – weapons if they're to be had, body armor, knives."

"Doesn't matter what we have, three against two armies is bad odds." Trip responded. He nudged the hand holding the bread to encourage Reed to eat and continued, "Best chance we have is contacting Enterprise or getting out of here. We could head for the mountains other side of the shuttle with provisions and wait a battle out. We don't wanna get involved in either side."

"If fighting breaks out, escape is a valid option, I want a better one though people." The thought of hauling a sick person into the wilderness was folly. They would have to leave Reed here which he was unwilling to consider. If things went south, he would send Trip away, but he couldn't leave his armory officer alone.

"If a battle is in the offing, we should go to the shuttle." Malcolm stated.

"Shuttle's a hunk of dead conduits and metal. Remember?"

"I do, Commander, even without power its hull plating is reinforced, could survive a battle, need to find a way to secure hatch..." Reed's eyelids fluttered a few times and he trailed off. "I mean, batten down the hatches…"

Archer said quietly to Tucker, "The shuttle is the best idea, Malcolm wouldn't last a day in the mountains. Wilderness training only goes so far."

"Your right Capt'n." Trip shook his head. "I didn't think. I'd hoped he be stronger by now."

"I know he's exhausted and in pain, but we're going to get him up and moving today."

They did so. After a frustrating morning of asking about the Bavellian soldiers about communication centers, Archer returned to their room.

"No luck." He sighed, then, "Mr. Reed. It's about time you get up and moving some, what do you say?"

Trip tried to rile him up some, but said it in a gentle voice, "Time to stop lying down on the job."

His now usual pause, then Malcolm nodded. "If that's the vox pop, who am I to argue?" He shifted some but tangled his feet in the sheets. When he bent over to extract them, he flopped awkwardly forward. His jaundiced skin looked sickly against the light sheets.

Archer moved in and seized hold to pull the legs over the bedside. Trip hustled over and got behind him to lever up and support his torso. They both halted when Reed sucked a breath in and held it tightly.

"You okay Mal?"

His hands were gripping the sheets. "Keep going." He grated.

Working as a team they stood him up, Archer in front and Trip behind. He sagged but did stay upright. They stood there, an awkward bundle, for several minutes.

A few steps with hefty support was all Reed could handle. As his body collapsed, Archer grabbed him under his arms while Trip took his ankles and they carried him bodily back.

"Not an auspicious start." Reed said when he regained some breath.

"We'll get there, one step at a time." Trip encouraged, disguising his disappointment. "Where are you hurting?"

Silence, then Trip suffixed "-Most?"

"Joints, chest." Reed said, discomfited.

Trip was so familiar with this trait that he steamrolled over the shyness. "Moving will help push that swelling out, you'll see." He proffered bandage material to Reed and said, "Been a few days, you wanna change them yourself, or me?"

"I'll do it." The man looked self-conscious.

Trip handed him towels, bandages, and a chamber pot, then gave him space and to complete his ablutions.

...

There was a firm knock on their door. Archer cautiously opened it to find one of their fellow tenants, an enemy POW.

"Your honor." She bowed and aid, "I feel it my duty to report to you something of the upmost importance. May I enter?"

Archer stepped aside and allowed the tall women in.

"Many of us feel you and your people have been sorely treated by the Bavellians. Despite what they may tell you, we are an honorable people and would have moved the world to help you."

"That's very kind." Archer replied carefully.

"I feel it my duty to inform you, under the strictest confidence in your neutrality, by penalty of death," She paused significantly here, "that my people are mounting an attack on this base tonight. There will nothing but rubble when they are done. You can join me and my people in fighting, ally yourself with the Bavellians, or make your quiet retreat, but whatever you plan you must do it soon."

Archer's stomach dropped. Although not sumptuous, the supplies and shelter of the barracks had been relied upon, they would have to make their own way now. He briefly considered allying with one side or the other, but if he chose wrong they would likely be killed.

"Thanks for the warning, you can rely on our discretion."

She bowed deeply and retreated.

All three exchanged a long look and Archer said, "We need to get out of here, pack anything we may need, I'll get our last set of rations. We head to the shuttle, attempt repairs, and hope Enterprise comes through soon. Get dressed in our own gear so we aren't mistaken as a native."

Trip began sorting through clothing for their blue away-mission trousers and jackets. Malcolm tried to pull himself up to help. He massaged his chest but was able to swing his legs over the bed and reach for the chair where a pile of clothing was resting. Trip toed the chair closer but didn't offer to help, he wanted Malcolm to feel motivated.

"Commander, I want you to go first, a few minutes ahead so we don't draw attention. We've been told we're not prisoners here but haven't truly tested that recently. I'll follow with Lieutenant Reed, wait for us just outside the barracks and we'll make the final leg together."

Tucker looked ready to protest until he saw the official, no-nonsense look on Archer's face.

Malcolm looked like he wanted to protest too, but was just too tired. He started a token argument, "Sir, that is to say…" but trailed off at his Captain's stern look.

"We do as I said, final word. Trip first, and if we don't show up, go without us."

Once prepared, Trip left with the weapon tucked inside his Starfleet jacket. Archer sat down by his armory officer and said neutrally, "Would you prefer to try and walk or resign yourself to cargo, Lieutenant?" He could sense emanating frustration from his officer. He tried to keep his tone business-like but knew how hard this was on the proud man.

"Either draws attention." He responded, "But whichever contributes best to our mission, I submit to, Sir."

"Good man." Archer clapped his shoulder lightly, trying to convey that Reed had had some choice in the situation.

He positioned Reed's arm behind his neck, told him to hold fast, and hefted the man securely against his chest. "All right?"

"Fine, sir." Reed was staring determinedly ahead with a fixed, forbearing expression.

Archer found carrying a fellow officer in this way disheartening. The effort usually trailed a dire event or injury - unfortunately a common occurrence – and always meant a friend or colleague would end up dead or in sickbay. No matter how many battles he fought, he still felt the weight of responsibility for the officers under him. His angular and limp burden would end up permanently debilitated (or worse) if they couldn't get home soon.

They got outside the Bavellian base with no problems. Archer's load was admittedly lighter because of Reed's illness, so they made good time. The guards must have assumed Archer was taking his officer out for fresh air, or simply not cared about the neutral aliens.

"Fancy meeting you here." Trip greeted them, relieved. In other circumstances he would derive great pleasure from teasing Reed about a free ride from his superior officer. But his friend was hardly up for ribbing - pale yellowish face scarcely recognizable in the bright sunlight. The usually vibrant man reposed pragmatically in Archer's firm grasp, hair looking jet black and eyes over-bright against his ashen features. He gave Trip a wry smile but said nothing.

The shuttle was as they'd left it, no new aid from Enterprise visible. Trip rewound the music box and allowed it to keep ticking out its message, but placed it in a cargo container so the discordant tune wouldn't annoy them.

It was cramped for three but when the distant sound of explosions and fighting broke out, they were appreciative for the oasis. Trip jury rigged a closure for the hatch that should stand up to some beating. He pored over the tools they had and anything on board that may be usable.

As the night passed, Reed's breathing grew inexplicably worse. He was unable to sit up without swaying dizzily. His chest hitched on most breaths and he occasionally huffed hard in apparent pain.

While the two hale members of the away team worked on the shuttle with their limited tools, he tried to remain still and silent so as not to distract them, but the discomfort was mounting. His breath grew harder, like he was inhaling through a thick blanket. The harsh gasps did eventually draw attention.

"What's going on Mal?" Trip urged. "What's changed?" Trip knelt quickly and ran a hand over Malcolm's chest and neck to look for swelling. His fingertips were turning pale white, almost blue and his lips were a dangerous purplish color. He did not answer and was faint.

"Let's get him up, Trip!" Archer urged, straddling Reed and shoving his arms under the man's torso. He embraced the armory officer upright and gripped him there. The moist coughs were bringing up a little foamy fluid, tinged with red.

Malcolm sputtered frenetically between coughs. "No! Harris, stop. That's enough!" He tried to pull away.

Archer held him fast and soothed. "Easy Malcolm, it's just us." He shifted the man up higher as he sagged.

Trip firmly thumped Mal's back and the man started to cough harder in full-bodied spasms. The coughing helped a fair amount, breathing eased.

But the strain was enough to push Reed back into dark memories.

…

SERE training was required for Starfleet's Special-Ops and made regulation survival training look like a walk in the park. In Malcolm's first year at the academy he had excelled in all his introductory classes and activities. He'd formed some loose friendships and romances, although none were serious or deep. While the other cadets were celebrating the end of their first year with partying, dancing, and generalized carousing, Malcolm and a select few were embroiled in a tortuous program in the north Georgia mountains.

At the same location used by the US Army for Ranger school, the Section's hand-picked initiates were undergoing an intense introduction to black-ops. Malcolm and the others were on a solo trek through the impenetrable woods, carrying only a knife, rations, compass, and water filter. His training at sea gave him a distinct advantage in orienteering and simply by the stars he was adept at navigating.

Malcolm felt elated as he trudged into the camp, the first cadet to find his way (it had taken him just 5 days). He was exhausted and starving with blistered toes and screaming quads, his eyes were bloodshot with strain and he was freezing cold from the constant rain.

As he entered the camp, Captain Harris approached him. "Congratulations, Cadet, you've done the best."

"Sir." He acknowledged, coming to a stiff parade rest in front of Harris.

"Now the real test begins." Harris forewarned with an unpleasant smile.

"Sir?" The young man asked, too tired to elaborate.

"In Starfleet Intelligence you'll often have tough assignments, here's one that happened to me: I was first to return to base only to find it controlled by enemy soldiers. They captured me, interrogated me, tortured me for information. I held out like a soldier, told them nothing, and escaped. One day you will be in a similar situation and I'm going to give the training to survive it."

Then Harris struck Reed across the face in an unexpected and violent blow.

"That's my story, let's see how you do in your first story, Reed."

Malcolm hit the ground hard with a splatter of mud. He'd been beaten before (his father believed firmly in the naval tradition of flogging) but hadn't fathomed Starfleet would endorse corporal teachings.

He righted himself quickly and parried the next blow, then went on the offensive. His small stature was an advantage in close quarters and he got several powerful blows in, but his lanky teenager's body was no match for the stronger, more experienced man. "I don't understand!" He gasped between hits.

"You will. Before this is over." Harris rained blows on his chest and abdomen before choking him hard to the ground. He kicked at the prone figure then he roughly started stripping Malcolm's clothing off.

"Stop!" Reed demanded through split lips. "That's enough."

"You think an enemy would stop? There are no time-outs or safe zones, not in the Section."

Harris turned him face down in the mud and stripped him down to his briefs.

"I say stop!" Reed tried to speak but his mouth was full of mud. "I haven't the training, you haven't the right." He was humiliated and tried to cover his exposed body. He was crushed deeper into the ground when Harris leaned onto him.

"Learn through experience."

It was raining and the rain mixed with sweat and tears on the 19-year-old's face. He'd had no idea, no idea the Section would be like this. He was horrified and wanted nothing to do with it. "I don't want-," he tried but was interrupted

"Tell me cadet, what does SERE mean." Harris punctuated the question by grasping Reed's hair and slamming his face back into the slimy muck. "Answer me, cadet."

"S-survival, evasion, resistance, escape." Reed spat the muck out. He couldn't see through the coating on filth on his eyes.

"That's survival, evasion, resistance, escape, _Sir!_" He placed a stunning blow on the cadet's neck.

"Y-Yes, _Sir._" The mud was cold and he was freezing, shivering with dread and adrenaline. This wasn't legal surely? Not sanctioned. Maybe his professor had gone mad and was going to murder him right now. He'd heard rumors that the man was extreme, maybe even unhinged and had gotten in trouble before with Starfleet security.

"You wanted me to teach you, so tell me my student, which one of those concepts are you enjoying right now?" He flipped the young man over so his hands were painfully trapped beneath.

Reed drew away but the man enveloped his neck in his hands, straddled him, and held him close - like for a perverted kiss.

"Resistance, sir." He gasped. He tried to buck under Harris and get him off, disturbed at this position of submission and exposure.

"And in the woods, on the solo trek?"

"Survival, sir." Reed spat quietly. He was shocked and confused but he was getting also very, very angry.

"And when you strolled into this camp, pleased as punch without any regard that there may be enemies about, where did you fail?"

"Evasion, you miserable sod! Get the bloody hell off of me!" Malcolm tried to raise his voice but the hand on his throat was constricting.

Harris' Cheshire smile grew and he whispered dangerously, "Oh, I'm going to have so much fun with you." He surprised Reed by roughly dragging him by his neck-hold for several meters, over to a swelling creek. "When the enemy has you, you have nothing, nobody in this world. The Section is all you have."

Reed kicked and bucked and twisted away. "No, stop this now." He stumbled to his knees but Harris thrust him back down. He jammed his knee hard into Harris' thigh and tried to pry the choking hands loose.

"_Pain is weakness leaving the body._" Harris dumped him to the freezing creek face first, holding him under.

The strength and power that erupted from the small, battered body surprised the Section operative. The kid was like a scalded cat. He fought and screamed for air and scrabbled around in the creek bed, cutting his knees and feet to ribbons. He was beyond crazed but could not escape Harris' hold. Before the kid could drown Harris pulled him out and deposited the body on the bank.

"That was just three minutes of torment, Reed, from start to end." He squatted down. "I endured three weeks. Do you want to be the best, part of something bigger and more important than you? I can teach you."

"I don't want your sort of teaching!" The quiet voice was bitter.

He tossed the wet clothes onto Reed's lap roughly. "You can hate me, but I am gonna toughen your green-ass up and make you a soldier, make you a man, the best operative in the galaxy. You'll be important and you'll be strong and you'll be the one doing the beat downs."

Harris turned to retreat and continued, "Wouldn't it be a shame to receive another dishonorable discharge? I could do that."

Reed was in a daze of pain, but he shouted at the retreating back in a clipped voice, "I don't have to do this, I will not kowtow to you!"

"But you want to! You want to be part of something incredible, exciting, important." Harris looked sharply back at him and asked, "What else do you have? A failed career in the Navy? A family who shuns you? No friends, no ambitions, you are alone." He lifted his arms to the raining sky and shouted, "_Better to fight for something than to live for nothing._ That's Patton, cadet, heed the General's words." His words echoed strangely in the wet, cold woods.

Reed felt alone and numb as he thought, _what have I gotten myself into?_

...

When he awoke, coughing softly and shivering with remembered cold, Malcolm eventually ventured, "Sir, I'd like to contribute to our efforts."

"Your breathing got worse with activity, you need to rest." His captain countered without looking up from his repairs.

"I feel better, I want to be useful." Reed repeated firmly.

"Well..." He looked up now kindly and concernedly.

Archer and Harris were like chalk and cheese; his current captain was not just honorable but an amiable man as well. Harris had been a manipulative tyrant who was willing to break rules to meet his needs. The man had been a soldier no doubt, but he'd lacked scruples and morality.

As a young ensign, Malcolm had worked hard to gain notoriety in weapons R&D and armory engineering, in hope to escape the Section. He'd never dreamed he'd be offered a position on Enterprise, but his cutting edge advances in phase canon and EM defense technology had caught Admiral Forrest's eye.

His memories of Harris and the Section were fresh in his mind and the feeling of repulsion at that first lesson sat heavy. His morals were such that treatment of even an enemy so poorly was beyond his comfort, let alone an inexperienced cadet. He'd been raised that an officer is also a gentleman, even in times of war or conflict. If his ethics and sense of fairness had been less he may have stayed with Harris- the work Section 31 did was important - but he'd found the unscrupulous job distasteful.

"There's not much any of us are getting done here, but would you like to work on the communication array for a while?" Archer's encouraging face made him almost flinch in distress. His disloyalty to this man was something he regretted and abhorred. He couldn't help but wonder if the Section had twisted him up so much it'd irrevocably ruined him. Maybe he was unfit material for the real Starfleet.

Reed had extensive training in engineering, outside of its use in the armory, his work with force fields necessitated continuing education in the subject. So with help, he struggled over to the appropriate system and slid into the copilot chair to get to work. Trip reached over to buckle him in which promoted a sour look from Reed.

By the end of the night, with a modified shielding, the tools Enterprise had sent in the crashed probe, and the materials they'd taken from the barracks they had successfully restored secondary systems power. Reed had repaired the console enough to receive a signal but not create one. He dozed buckled in the chair, the upright position agreeing with his compromised lungs.

"We may be able to lift off if no more EM weapons are discharged." Trip said quietly.

"I don't want to risk it unless we run out of options. This shuttle wouldn't last another crash."

The communication console lit up cheerfully. "We're being hailed!" Trip exclaimed.

"Answer it," Archer replied.

Trip reached over Malcolm, who was stirring from his stupor, to tap in the right sequence.

Audio was muffled but it was unmistakably Hoshi. "-Come in, come in shuttlecraft this is Enterprise, we received your Morse message – weapons fire detected near your position...what is your status?"

"Hoshi, this is Archer, we are alive. The shuttle is disabled. Requesting assistance, medical, and extraction."

"Captain, it is agreeable to hear you voice. I hope you are not in dire distress." T'Pol's calm voice was a balm.

"T'Pol, is the ship safe? We need out, whenever you deem it safe to get us." His words stumbled in his haste.

"We are stable, we have avoided the EM fields but are unable to extract you unless you can reach the planet's mesosphere. Over the past twelve days we have been able to modify the ship to remain active at that level despite the worsening EM discharges."

Archer looked to Trip, "Can we do it?"

"With some more repairs and modifications we can."

"Sub-Commander, anyway you can send another care package? We could use some more medical aid and tools."

Archer glanced at Reed when he said this, who met his appraising gaze reproachfully. The effect was lost by Reed's hollow cheeks and labored breathing. His dilated pupils and sweaty brow reflected an otherwise silent suffering

"Captain, unfortunately we are unable to accurately launch a probe due to increased EM pulse weapons. This communique will cease in approximately 3.5 minutes."

"Affirmative, put Phlox on the line."

A brief pause, and then Phlox's unique voice chirped from the comm. "Captain! A relief to hear your voice. Please debrief me regarding your physical status and any concerning injuries."

"Lieutenant Reed's been infected with some type of illness, likely biologic weapon. Trip and I are fine. He's been sick for days: high fever, seizures, a little better now, but still having problems, mostly with breathing." Archer was conscious the man in question was sitting nearby, and perhaps it was rude to speak of him so bluntly, but he was unwilling to waste precious time mincing words or allowing Reed to speak for himself.

"I am concerned to hear it. Have you any knowledge of the etiology – is it viral, bacterial, fungal?"

"These people have no idea, they are operating with no technology." Trip offered.

"I see." Phlox let a beat pass and said in a subdued tone, "High fever often indicates a viral etiology but one cannot be sure. I believe supportive care is of the upmost importance until diagnostics can be performed. The lingering respiratory effects are most concerning." He listed concisely medications to be administered and those to be avoided. The comm line fizzled out before any more talk was possible.

…

The escape was rougher than any of them would have liked (Trip was already calculating how many double shifts he's have to pull to repair the shuttle), but they did manage to ascend high enough for Enterprise to pluck them out of the planet's sky.

They went through decontamination with Phlox himself present; he submitted himself to the brief imprisonment so he could scan and monitor Reed. His pleasant face was furrowed as he listened to Reed's heart and lungs.

Reed had been positioned supine on the bench while Archer and Trip retreated several steps to grant some privacy and coat themselves with germicidal gel.

"I have seen you looking healthier, Lieutenant." Phlox admitted to his patient, putting away his stethoscope with one hand and grasping his medical scanner in the other.

"It's a relief to see you." Reed replied honestly between breaths.

"I'm pleased to hear it. A deviation from your usual disinclination for my company." The doctor dulled the gibe with a friendly tone. His patient looked deathly; under the blue lights his pale skin was greyish and mottled with an extensive rash. His lungs fields were full of fluid and his breathing reflected this with an increase in rate and effort. Phlox kept the scanner running while he continued the physical exam.

As he palpated the joint effusion in the extremities, Reed responded slowly, "I ask your pardon...I hope you don't take it personally?"

The timid, searching voice was so unlike this man's customary tone that Phlox changed the medical device over from a cardiovascular scan to a neurologic assessment. He considered Reed's face and voice, trying to assess his mentation and frowned at what he saw. Reed's usual constrained displeasure at finding himself under Phlox's care was wholly supplanted by an innocent anxiety.

In a gentle voice usually reserved for children he comforted. "No hard feelings; Physicians are commonly avoided, I find. Mr. Reed, are you aware of where you are?"

The man stared at him and then down at himself. "School? You pulled me from the fountain. Bully tried to drown me." His confusion was mounting noticeably. "But I've fought him off, given better than I got, he just got lucky this time." He looked alarmed suddenly. "You musn't tell Father!"

Raising his eyebrows, Phlox didn't miss a beat. "Absolutely not. But indeed you are not at school, you are on a starship, and you are safe. Hmm?" Phlox's tone was so paternal and steady that Reed immediately relaxed. "Ah, there now." He soothed reassuringly.

"Father will be angry – brawling like a common drudge - he'll beat me." Malcolm despaired softly into Phlox's ear as the doctor leaned close for an ophthalmologic exam. "They all hate me."

The doctor replied steadily in his lightly accented voice, "You are safe in my sickbay." Phlox, being a father himself, was particularly repulsed by this admission. "And I most certainly do not hate you, hm, I like you very much." He leaned back up.

Grey eyes gazed at him thankfully. "Merci, mon ami."

"Ah?" The Doctor's concern grew until he heard Commander Tucker guffaw.

"Quit showing off, Malcolm." Trip warned good naturedly.

Reed looked amused, then perplexed, then anxious again. He didn't seem to know quite was happening.

Phlox's hand scanner had a limited capacity but gathered enough information for the doctor to determine Reed was in trouble. With several minutes still left in decon he needed to start stabilization. Reed's most emergent problem was heart failure, there were damaging vegetative lesions on the aortic and left AV valve, causing pulmonary edema. Phlox would need to replace the valves eventually but for now administered an inotropic injection and a phosphodiesterase inhibitor.

The neurologic scan was less concerning: the mentation issues were likely arising from hepatic failure. This was causing a buildup of ammonia and other toxins, leading to an encephalopathy. But he'd have to wait until a detailed scan of his patient was complete for a definitive diagnosis. The liver was much easier to heal than neural tissue and the doctor felt cautiously optimistic. He administered an injection to bind ammonia and a dose of liver protectant, his own recipe derived from Setauran sea thistles.

Finally, Reed's rash, extensive and unsightly, was simply his allergies recrudescing. An IgE antagonist would help until his customary immunotherapy could be administered. Phlox gave a dose of this subcutaneously, stood back with a sigh and nodded to show he was done for the moment. "There now."

Malcolm was staring at his arm where the myriad injections had been administered. He looked up at Phlox and said sardonically, "Just the five shots then, Doctor?"

"For now." Phlox replied, rather ominously, but he was pleased to see a bit of spirit back in the sick man. "The goal is to get you better. Hm?" He snagged to bottle of medicinal gel and began applying it Reed's skin.

Reed shied away a bit but submitted to it as he had the shots. When the Doctor was done he said, "Thank you, I know you dislike casual touch."

"That's thoughtful, however I feel no reservations with contact in medicinal circumstances, as you well know." Phlox reminded him, wiping his hands clean.

"Of course." Reed peered at him and said, "I know that, or, I used to know that." He crumpled his brow in thought then asked, "Where are we again?"

"On _Enterprise_." Phlox reminded him gently.

"HMS?"

"I'm not sure quite what you mean, but to clarify, Enterprise is a vessel, part of Earth's Starfleet."

"Yes, of course." Reed was silent now and did not appear to want to talk anymore. He shut his eyes and turned his head away.

Phlox pursed his lips concernedly then turned away too, to spare a few minutes to scan and examine Tucker and Archer. Thankfully, they were undernourished and exhausted but overall healthy.

The blue lights turned to yellow and the door released. Phlox and a medic transferred Reed onto a gurney (alas, none of the anticipated complaints) and whisked him away for further evaluation. He excused the other two for now.

...

Later that evening Archer and Trip returned at Phlox's summons for follow up scans.

Phlox looked unusually solemn. "He's infected with a retrovirus, a systemic infection. He's no longer contagious, this was certainly engineered to do extensive damage. Once exposed, without treatment, a victim would be infected for life."

"But there is a treatment?" Archer interjected.

"Yes, I've already begun administering anti-retrovirals. He has extensive hepatic damage and endocarditis, he was in left-sided heart failure." Phlox stated gravely, running his scanner over them thoroughly. "Only a few decades ago he would die from this. It will be weeks for him to recover, he will need eventual surgery and organ regeneration."

"But he will get better?" Tucker asked quickly.

"I believe so, although he's having a difficult time of it now." Phlox frowned again before reverting to his typical genial expression. "Happily, neither you or Captain Archer are infected, you lack the susceptible DNA fragment."

"Should we return to Earth, or a Starbase?" Archer asked. "Do you need more advanced equipment, specialists?"

Phlox smiled broadly and said, "Everything I need is available here, Captain. I have ensured this is a well-equipped sickbay. None of the procedures are terribly difficult but they will take time."

Archer returned to the bridge to continue his communications with Starfleet regarding the planet, but Trip followed the doctor to his monitors. Malcolm was on the nearest biobed. The man was breathing easier and eyed them as they approached. He smiled fractionally at Trip.

Trip gave a jerky wave and smiled too. "Can I stay with him a while?" Trip asked the doctor.

"I warn you, Commander, although improving, he is still experiencing discomfort, confusion, which will take time to resolve. He is a very sick man, in body and mind." Phlox adjusted a monitor and admitted, "He asked me, very politely, just now to 'please stop hurting him', as I was placing a PICC line." The doctor looked duly troubled.

Malcolm did look pensive suddenly and when he caught Trip's eye again his expression was lost and unfamiliar.

Trip was anxious to speak on Malcolm's behalf. "He doesn't know what he's saying."

"You misunderstand, Commander. I am certainly not upset that he is hurting, but that he feels so vulnerable. It is out of character."

Trip reflected that the doctor knew Malcolm better than most. He tried to explain, "It's these memories, flashbacks, keeps thinking he's a kid again. It upsets him, was a bad time in his life. Can you suppress them?"

"His mentation is West Haven grade 2 or even 3 – serious, but not deadly." Phlox smiled confidently. "Do not worry yourself. His 'flashbacks', as you say, are distressing but temporary."

As they spoke, Reed was in fact experiencing a flashback- one of his better memories at sea but tinged with loneliness.

He was perched in the maintopmast crosstrees and looking east upon the endless Pacific. The ship had just passed west over the International Date Line and the crew below him shouted in celebration of the occasion. The vast sea and sky were laid out before him, velvet black, the sky studded with stars and the sea with surreal phosphorescence.

A soft glow forewarned the beginning of day, and he saw it first from his lofty height. A shard of sun peeped over the horizon and so it warmed the skyline, until the sky and ocean blushed every brilliant color and the ship's wake blazed as fire.

He gasped aloud in delight. The sun's rays struck him before plunging down the mast to brighten the deck. He'd been the first person in the entire world to be touched by this dawn, the first eyes to see it.

"Just look at the sunrise!" He searched for someone to share in his joy, but he was alone; the little, foreshortened figures were far below on deck.

He was alone; alone like Maddie had said when they were children. Like Harris had said too, years later when he would be a young cadet.

In the real world Trip patted his friend's arm and replied banally, "You're hallucinating again Mal. Can't see a sunrise from sickbay."

In Reed's dreaming memory, he looked over and there was Trip, beside him in the crosstrees. The flush of colors reflected radiantly off Trip's face and his familiar, kind eyes.

"I'm not alone." Malcolm said with relief, in both the dream and real world.

Trip sat down next to him in sickbay and answered, "Of course you're not alone - you have me."

END

For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world."  
― **Oscar Wilde**

* * *

[AM1]al


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